


The Pitfalls of a Legacy

by Astarael06



Category: Assassin - Fandom, Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Everyone other than Shaun is just mentioned, Sad Shaun, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarael06/pseuds/Astarael06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaun muses on his own shortcomings.</p><p>Set at the end of AC Brotherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pitfalls of a Legacy

Shaun had never been _that guy_.

 _That guy_.

There was always a _that guy_ , or a _that girl_ , or in a particularly unforgiving year, both at once. For them, everything seemed to happen with a particular ease, they slid through life as if the problems that halted others were incorporeal in the presence of their particular aura. They could not be touched, but one knew with startling clarity that if they were to have fallen prey to the pitfalls of life, they would without a doubt have found their way out with that same ease.

Shaun Hastings, Historian, had never been in that category.

He was smart, there was no denying that. He was widely knowledgeable on a range of topics and when it came to historical data there was simply no comparison. His computer skills were above average and his ability to research was foregrounded – not all fifteen year olds had the know-how, or even the initiative to look into the inner workings of a global conglomerate.

Shaun was smart, but sometimes (a lot of the time) that didn’t feel like enough. He was an assassin, but in a largely office capacity. He wasn’t a field agent, didn’t roam the world foiling the Templar order with strategic and physical exploits (not that he really wanted to exhibit his (lack of) physical prowess to the people he was currently surrounded by); he aided those who did.

He was (essentially) at times, he thought, the Miss Moneypenny to whichever James Bond was currently in the field and lacking in any sort of sense. (He glossed over the use of the ‘Guy Fawkes’ pseudonym from his pre-assassin days, it perhaps was a bit self-indulgent and while he could, would (and had) argue for why it was the perfect name, such tendencies of youth were something one tried to leave behind when one reached a certain age. Shaun had also come the realise that he had a certain image to project, and it was perhaps best to distance himself from his earlier, exploits)

Although he knew he was smart, knew he was needed, sometimes, sometimes it was hard to not feel, less.

Being left behind when it fell to Desmond and Lucy to find a way into the Monteriggioni mansion had been one of those little stings to be tucked away (and never looked at), and later redirected as a sarcastic poke at the nearest person. The best way to avoid dealing with these unwanted feelings was to simply become a conduit, transfer the negative energy to someone else and just, try to ignore.

The sting had returned now, leaving Desmond in the Colosseum to parkour his way into the temple while the others found a more accessible way around. Lucy had been all set to leave him and Rebecca as well, leave the two techies to find their own way. He couldn’t, just couldn’t be resigned to that group again.

“Whoa whoa whoa, what about us eh?” (Don’t just bugger off and leave us)

“You might actually need a historian down there.” (I am necessary. I am useful)

And Lucy agreed but -

“I’ll help them find another entrance.”

As someone who spent a lot of time analysing data, the nuances (whether or not they were intentional they still blared out at him and caught his attention) hit him square in the face. ‘Them’ – separate from Desmond and Lucy and definitely of a kind with Rebecca (it wasn’t a bad thing to be grouped with Rebecca, she was smart and talented, Shaun had no idea how to keep the animus running (she was even more essential than he was in this little group) but, and however irrational it may be, it made what he lacked more apparent). ‘Help’ – because they wouldn’t be able to do it on their own. Backstage crew to the shining protagonists who took centre stage, they would be blinded by the light if they tried to set out on their own, needed a field agent to ensure their success.

“I’ve seen your car.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with his issues, but it alleviated his own hurt for just a moment, that fleeting satisfaction that only came with a cool, sarcastic indifference.

As they raced along Capitoline Hill (Lucy in the driver’s seat), Shaun couldn’t help but think about what differentiated him from the legacy negotiating the maze of the colosseum. It was just that – Shaun was not any sort of _legacy_. He didn’t come from one, had no particular history to defend, it was just him (and the fear that maybe he was wasting himself).

_“Most Assassins, Desmond, are like you, yeah? They’re ‘born’ into the Brotherhood. Not me though.”_

Destiny had no major hand in Shaun’s life, he wasn’t a Chosen One, he was just and idiot kid who turned into an idiot adult who got themselves kidnapped by the Templars and had to be rescued by the very woman he now tried so desperately to distance himself from. Shaun wasn’t ‘born’ to anything.

Desmond had a destiny, his very genes dictated his involvement in the Brotherhood and within days he had become more important to the dealings of the Assassins than Shaun could ever hope to be. He had no history, and history was very much in vogue with both the Templars and Assassins. He could tell Desmond all about the history of the sites where subject 16 left clues, but he couldn’t access it himself. He couldn’t even verify his Norse descent, because he didn’t have the authority to use the animus.

Desmond was a _legacy_ , blood was his inheritance, perhaps diluted somewhat from the original, but no less important, no less precious. Ancestrally speaking, Shaun’s blood was fit for nothing but staining the cobblestones if the need ever arose.

“Took you long enough.” Caustic sarcasm thinly veiled behind a pretence of humour, check.

Santa Maria Aracoeli was beautiful, even with Desmond performing his latest high flying acrobatics up in the vaulted ceilings. The guy has a few sessions in the animus and suddenly he’s ready to audition for the circus.

“Whatever this is it doesn’t do anything. It’s a dead end.”

This wasn’t in any of the plans, wasn’t in the blueprints. Shaun’s knowledge of their location stopped when whatever it was popped out of the ground, and it was as frustrating as it was fascinating.

At this point they were moving from logic to legacy and damn if that didn’t force tiny sparks of fear up Shaun’s spine – they were moving farther and farther away from the world in which Shaun would argue he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of many things (at least fantastic research skills if his memory ever failed him) and into a domain over which he had not even the pretence of control.

“If you wanna kill us mate, you’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”

This might just kill them. Shaun was going to die underneath the Santa Maria Aracoeli. As far as final resting places went, it could be worse.

It was easier to just look away when Desmond began his latest death defying acrobatics; easier to ignore that little sting in the back of his mind that reminded him that he wasn’t able (couldn’t) to do the same.

The arrival of the large and fascinating (read: vaguely terrifying and threatening) map brought Shaun some ease. He may not understand the technology behind what was going on (those precursors had some _fantastic_ tech), but there were symbols he recognised.

Finally, able to grasp at a little bit of that control he had lost when they had come down here in the first place. This wasn’t entirely within his comfort range, but at least there was something familiar in this alien room.

And suddenly Shaun can be useful again.

It feels more like relief than is decent.

“I know this. I know that symbol. That’s a Phyrgian cap. It stands for freedom…and that, that’s a Masonic eye. Now those two come together in only one place-”

(And suddenly the world freezes)

Desmond moves, but oddly – like a reluctant marionette who doesn’t want to perform but despite its complaints is pulled towards centre stage. He passes beyond Shaun’s scope of vision, beyond his periphery (and Shaun is cut off _again_ , and her desperately needs to see this time, because this is wrong, this is dangerous) and he is helpless now and something bad is going to happen, he just knows it -

An eternity passes as Shaun stands frozen.

In that moment, Desmond is just as powerless as the rest of them, here his legacy cannot help him. He is trapped in the thrall of his blood, connected to some higher destiny that has used him as its puppet.

_“If you wanna kill us mate, you’re going to have to try a little harder than that”_

(He hadn’t meant it quite that literally, hadn’t thought that someone (something) else might have been listening)

Although he can move again (he turned around after all) they may as well still be held in place by whatever power had forced them into stillness. Because no one is moving; Rebecca is staring, he is staring, and Desmond is on the floor and _Lucy_ -

Lucy’s blood stains the stone, scarlet seeping slowly outwards and Shaun wishes she would move, that her body would stop seeming so _still_ because she isn't sleeping she is _dead_ and somehow it was _Desmond_ (his blood spilled hers, his legacy took her life) who saw to it that Lucy suffered this fate.

Fate (As fickle as they say, or maybe just as cruel). An end for Lucy, not a fulfilment.

For a second (just a moment) Shaun was struck by guilt; that Lucy (necessary, skilled, strong) was prone on the ground and he was fine, he was standing seemed so out of place (he was expendable, just a Historian, replaceable) because he wasn’t chosen, wasn’t special and its them (the infamous red shirts) who were meant to go first.

Weren’t they?

Perhaps not having a destiny was preferable. Perhaps it was better not to be _that guy_ , fade into the background, be the mysterious person in black clothing who moved the scene around, stay out of the light, because if the light didn’t touch you it couldn’t burn.

Historically isolated, ancestrally void.

But a small price to pay to avoid being fortunes fool.

Because if this was the price of blood, (if _this_ was your _legacy_ )-

Shaun might not be an Assassino.

But he was one damn fine Historian.


End file.
